Della Olympics

We recently surprised the women with some good old fashioned field games. It was nothing short of hilarious.

You can read about our shenanigans on Della's blog here.

- Ashley Rose

Cedi Bead Factory

Since working at Della, I've become fascinated with the process of producing. I can't walk by a piece of clothing now without inspecting it and figuring out how it's made.

 

Every item I come across in my day-to-day has been designed, produced, packaged and shipped by someone. From the hairbrush I use every day to the plastic chair I'm sitting in now, these items are all made by someone, and that never ceases to amaze me.

 

Almost everyone I encounter in Ghana have beads somewhere wrapped around some part of their body, but I had no clue how they were made.

 

My curiosity took me on an impromptu field trip to Cedi Bead Factory.

 

After a sweaty tro ride, we arrived to the factory, located in Odumase-Krobo, about two hours from Accra. I was expecting a large industrial factory, as the name suggests, but as we walked through the gate to an open field lined with concrete patios, I realized this is a much smaller scale production than I thought.

 

 

There were only five or so craftsmen at the facility. They focus on quality, not quantity, according to their directional signage. Mr. Cedi, the owner of the "factory" has traveled around the world to various craft fairs, sharing his methods with other bead fanatics. His world travels shaking hands with the best bead makers around the world line the gift shop.

 

 Cedi Bead Factory makes five kinds of beads using different methods. All beads start by mixing materials, mostly glass, into molds and melting them in a clay fireplace.

Once melted, each bead has to be individually pierced to create a hole large enough to be threaded. After the beads are cooled, they are polished in a mixture of sand and water and are ready to be sold.

I had a great time and got some vibrant blue beads, which have me thinking about a handful of DIY projects.

Processes fascinate me, and it's nice to know how the little glass beads around my wrist came to be.

- Ashley

Happy 4th from Hohoe.

Last year’s Fourth of July was spent driving through the Californian desert drinking Bud Lime-a-Ritas with the sunroof down and the music loud. It was as American as it could get.

This year, I’m in a little town in Africa, with red polish on my toes, blue on my fingers and an American flag bandana wrapped around my head, trying to channel my inner patriot from an ocean away.

My mother recently asked me when I “stopped hating patriotic shit.” (Her words, not mine.)

And it’s true! I used to loathe anything red, white and blue. This is about the same time I thought looking at scenery and sunsets was a waste of time and I didn’t speak to her for a week when she bought a vintage wooden boat instead a fast, shiny fiberglass one.

It’s safe to say my tastes have changed over the years.

After touring the country in an RV, going coast-to-coast meeting great humans and seeing the vast diversity of landscapes and stories that comprise America, I am more than proud to call it home.  

So today, in honor of the independence of my dear nation, I will drink a beer (No Lime-a-Ritas in Hohoe, unfortunately), eat hard corn off the street and sing the national anthem at the top of my lungs.

How getting robbed at knife point reinforced my faith in humanity.

I’ve recently coined the term “knugged.” It sounds a bit less terrifying than getting held up at knifepoint and having a man slice your purse off you and steal all of your money.

Which, technically, is exactly what happened. 

It was two weeks ago. Three of us were walking back home on the familiar road I have walked countless times before, often past midnight, and often alone.

(Sorry, mom.)

It’s just, I have never felt unsafe in this town. I’ve lived in this small town in Ghana for almost three months now. Everyone knows my name. Everyone had been nothing but friendly and welcoming since I’ve been here.

Hohoe had become my home. I felt safe, and, in a sense, invincible.

I had even heard about a knugging earlier that week. (See? It sounds a lot less threatening, doesn’t it?)

Two Americans were robbed at knifepoint on the market road near our house and lost 400 cedi ($200) and two iPhones.

I was appalled, shocked, but not scared. That couldn’t happen to me, I thought. We are the yeavos that live with the Rasta. We stay for months, not weeks. We’re a part of this town. Everyone looked out for us. No one would think to touch us. I was sure of it.

It was 8:30 p.m. when we turned onto our road. It had just gotten dark.

“Don’t worry, those travelers were jumped on that road over there, not this one,” I told our skeptical Couchsurfer.

We passed a couple men who enthusiastically greeted us.

”Wazo! You are welcome in Ghana! How are you enjoying our country?”

This was the typical way people treated us. Warm. Friendly. Kind.  We responded that we loved it here, thank-you-very-much, and went on our way.

I started talking about what someone should do if they were attacked, not because I thought it would happen three minutes later, but because I recently read an article about how a woman journalist stayed alive while taken hostage in the Middle East by remaining submissive when they tortured her. She knew fighting back would do more harm than good, and she stayed alive because of it.

Before we could reach a consensus on what we would do in that situation, it happened. Two men walked in front of us and quickly spun around.

“Do you know what this is?” One said to me, holding a knife blade close to my face.

My stomach dropped. If I hadn’t heard what happened to those two tourists a week before, it wouldn’t have occurred to me what was going on. I probably would have assumed he was genuinely asking if I knew what knife meant in Ewe or something. That’s how safe I felt.

Before I could really respond, he grabbed the strap of my purse and sliced it off my body. Rachael hit the other with her water bottle, and they left as quickly as they came.

Numb, I walked to the small shop next to our house, refusing to look behind me, and collapsed in tears. Immediately, a crowd drew. Through choked sobs, I told them our story.

A group of boys, most of whom I had barely spoken with before, immediately went on a search party.

Dorcas, a fifteen year old girl, offered to be our body guard any time we go outside again.

Our friend Elvis swore to figure out who did it and make sure "justice is served." He comes over almost every day to give us updates. 

So yes, these two men stole 15 dollars, my debit card, cheap cell phone and our house keys. But, in all honesty, they haven’t taken much else. My perception of this community and the people living here isn’t tarnished. What happened to me on that street could have happened to me in any other part of the world, and I refuse to blame the entirety of Hohoe for the actions of two stupid dudes.

If anything, this experience has strengthened my belief in community.

- ashley rose.

The last 43 days.

I’ve been in this country for 42 days now. I haven’t posted a single picture, or given much of an update. I suppose it’s time. I’ve been writing sporadically in my journal. Looking back on those entries reminds me of the times I have struggled and the times I have been overwhelmingly grateful to be here. 

“I’m defnitely going to get malaria.” - March 8, 2013.

Those were the first words I wrote after stepping foot into Ghana. Incredibly overwhelmed and severely cultureshocked, I bobbed and weaved the dark streets of Accra, trying to make sense of the language and the unbearable heat and how on earth I was actually going to enjoy this place. I thought of Accra as dirty, suffocating. I was sure I made the wrong choice by coming out here. I wanted to turn right back around and run home. I couldn’t think about anything other than the fact that I didn’t get malaria medication before I came and I was certain I would die here, in this miserably hot country, from a stupid mosquito bite. 

Without a doubt, this past month and a half has been the most challenging of my life, but it hasn’t been as bad as my initial jetlagged scrawls in my journal made it out to be. This isn’t a vacation; this is work. Exhausting, stressful work. Putting in sixteen to twenty hour days, my body and my mind were turning against me, and I was too blinded by my day-to-day to notice all of the beauty around me. 

With some of the pressure of us now, I’ve been able to breathe and take in this country, and see it for what it truly is. 

I'm living in Ghana because I failed.

Last August, I signed a year lease on a beautiful, old home with all intentions of making it through the contract. I’d never committed to living in one place for such a long period of time. To me, a year seems like an eternity. Since graduating high school, I can’t remember the last time I’ve lived in one city for an entire year. Always bouncing around to the next opportunity seems natural and second nature, but something about  Bellingham made me think I could make it through. I only had a year or so left before graduating school, so it seemed logical to stick around until I got my degree. My life was planned out — I would major in journalism and minor in internet resource and content management, and then move back to Los Angeles. 

My newsroom desk. 

A few months ago, I was living a stressed, but comfortable, life. I loved my house. I loved my roommates. I loved my job at the downtown vintage clothing store. I loved being the features editor for the school newspaper, where the newsroom staff quickly became a second family. Life was busy, school was demanding, but everything was alright. I had no intentions of leaving my little town that was slowly turning into a home.

New Years Eve Shenanigans // Master of Party Games

Ghana was not in my near or considerable future.  

I’ve always done well in school, but there was one class during my winter quarter that I couldn’t handle. (I’ve now realized 8 a.m. classes are not for me.) I needed it for my minor, but I had fallen too far behind in the course to pass. After staring blankly at my Scantron sheet the day of the midterm, I decided it would be best to drop the class. I don’t quit classes, ever. I was upset with myself, my procrastination and lack of time management, but I was even more upset that this meant I might have to spend more time at school. I failed. I wanted my degrees and I wanted them now. I couldn’t stomach the idea of enrolling in another quarter because of one little dropped class. 

After venting to my adviser and mulling over possibilities of a new minor, she mentioned something I had never thought about before — studying abroad. A quarter in another country gives you enough credits to count as a minor, but I didn’t want to enroll in the traditional study abroad route. 

At that moment, I remembered Della. A couple of my friends back in LA worked there, and it seemed like I could hack my education and count a quarter in Ghana for school credit.  

I texted Sequoia, my friend who works on the LA side of Della, and asked her opinion. Within minutes, I was handed over to Tina, the founder, and was encouraged to apply. Before the day was finished, my application was sent. The idea of packing up and leaving again excited me. I was beginning to like Bellingham, but the idea of moving again was all I could think about. Turns out, I can’t seem to shake this wanderlust. 

Long story short, I was accepted for a position in Ghana, but the university wouldn’t swing it for school credit at the time. I had a difficult decision to make. Do I turn down Della and continue working towards my degree, or do I take more time off school and take this opportunity? After many frantic phone calls with my mom, she assured me school would always be there, and Ghana was an experience I needed to seize. I’m thankful to have such a strong, supportive mom, who allows me to go and do and see and live. 

It took a few days to decide, but I accepted the offer, gave everything I own to Value Village, quit my job and bought my plane ticket.

And now, I’m here. 

Ghana wouldn’t have even been an option if I didn’t fail that class and start scrambling for another opportunity. Because of that, Della landed in my lap, and I wouldn’t trade this time in my life for the world. 

I thought failing that class was the end of the world, but it turned out to be just the catalyst I needed to become a part of something meaningful again. 

Maybe some things do happen for a reason.